


Lace Panties

by TheHuggamugCafe



Series: Boutique [5]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anniversary Night, Bad End Route, Body Worship, Corrupt!Akira, F/M, Glove Kink, Praise Kink, husband/wife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: Your first anniversary with your husband…It’s normally a wonderful celebration.You’d agree if your spouse was anybodybutAkira Kurusu.However, it’s what he asks you after dinner that takes you by surprise.“Wear this to bed tonight—and nothing else. It will be your anniversary gift to me.”





	Lace Panties

**Author's Note:**

> Holy moly.
> 
> This is my 51st work on this site! I honestly didn’t think I’d have so many writing pieces.
> 
> I’d like to take a moment to extend my thanks to everyone.
> 
> The ones who read my writing.
> 
> The ones who leave kudos.
> 
> The ones who leave comments.
> 
> The ones who give me a reason to keep writing: friends, regulars, and newcomers alike.
> 
> Each and every one of you has this Barista’s deepest, heartfelt gratitude! Cheers to all of you dear customers!

A palm. Five fingers. The feeling of leather.

That is what you feel skimming across the bare skin of your back; a similar feeling of leather held a barely clothed hip covered only by a thin strap of black lace, edged with red satin trimming around your hips, waist, and under and around your thighs. A simple but elegant rose on the front, directly above your glistening womanhood, polishes off the underwear’s classy appearance.

Earlier, he asked you to wear the underwear you’re currently wearing to bed and nothing else.

“_Wear this to bed tonight—and nothing else. It will be your anniversary gift to me,”_ or so he claimed.

With a set jaw and one line of teeth grounding down on the other, your fingers clutch at the comforters you and your husband of a full year, Akira Kurusu, sit upon. Tension possesses you as you allow yourself to think a single thought as leather clad hands slowly, carefully skim your sides; you feel ten gloved fingers and two leather palms holding your hips in a loose hold of faux care.

It is cliché, so terribly cliché, but it’s so appealing and beautiful—you begrudgingly and quietly admit as much to yourself. The touch dips further south and you feel—and hear—a soft hum of approval in your ear as a low, keening mewl is pulled from your mouth at the feeling of leather gracing your lower back.

For a moment and only a moment, a single digit sneaks across your skin softly, deceptively so, but it suits both the situation _and _ the palm, the five fingers, and the leather glove it—the hand, _his _hand—is wrapped up in.

It successfully ensnares you like a trap will assuredly catch a rabbit unaware, lulling you into a false sense of serene security.

The five digits ghosting down over the nude expanse of your back, the touch as light as a feather robs you of thought, robs you of _caring _to think from you.

“Need I remind you _why_ I do this? Why I am intimate with you each and every night?”

The voice is low, set to an octave that’s barely above a whisper, and you unconsciously cling to each syllable, every word that leaves the mouth that hovers directly next to your ear. You feel the warm breath that slithers down the shuddering skin of your throat, leaving a nostalgic hint of mint that clings to your senses as you take in a quick inhale.

The fleeting glimpses of physical affection do nothing to soothe the brief shot of ice that crawls up and down your spine, freezing your blood in your veins.

Words form, but they die in your throat before they get the chance to leave your trembling lips.

You don’t—_can’t—_reply. All you can do is swallow a gulp that you _swear _is the size of a tennis ball; you felt it slither down your esophagus to your gut, flip-flopping in anxiety and barely contained excitement.

Quietly, you find yourself fearing the former and loathing the latter.

Even though you’ve been the dutifully betrothed—such a term is outdated at best and a sweet lie you tell yourself every day, to keep yourself sane—of Akira Kurusu for only a year, he still keeps you guessing, whether you’re in bed with him or outside of it.

And you hate it. You hate how you can never seem to read him like an open book, not like you can do with so, so many other people. Your family. Your friends. Your relatives. Your fellow Phantom Thieves. Neighbours, acquaintances, even strangers

Slowly, you feel the telltale sensation of smooth leather dragging over your smooth, lightly sweating skin, tracing the curve of your spine—and you silently spit curses as a shiver possesses your shoulders, followed by the softest of moans leaving your trembling mouth—as a pair of warm lips kisses a path from the nape of your neck to your shoulders.

“Because… Until the day we both die, and even after that, you will always be…”

You focus on the things he freely offers you: the fleeting touches; the kisses that were as light as air; the heat of his body pressing against yours.

You focus on _all _of the feelings and the sensations he willingly gives to you, and you hate him as much as you love him for it.

You hate how easily he can toy with your body, offering you fleeting glimpses of leather clad touches dripping with affection—or rather, his warped sense of love, of a husband caring for his wife—as his hands slowly and carefully map out your body.

Your body freezes as a tingling sensation ripples through you, causing your trembling to become even more noticeable. It is an experience you detest because your heart bellows _“He loves you! Akira does this to you and treats you like this because he loves you!” _even though you know better.

_I know better._

Your teeth worry the flesh of your lower lip; you feel tension in your jaw as your brows pinch the slant of your eyes, a frown winning control of your lips.

_I know better._

The feeling of smooth leather skimming across your back momentarily yanks you free of your thoughts, and you find yourself focusing on the various dips and curves his crimson clad digit traces into the skin of your back.

_M._

You feel the poison of nostalgia running its course through your veins, and you hate it—that deadly and bittersweet venom circulating through your shivering, nearly nude self. Your attentiveness piques sharply, sucking in a breath through your trembling lips and chattering teeth as, slowly, the feeling of leather touches your bare back. You feel the way the smooth crimson material feels against the unique shape of your body.

_I._

It’s an experience you’ve come to abhor, fear, anticipate, and look forward to feeling in equal amounts. It’s an experience that makes you want to drown in the lust and love of your spouse, not caring that they are two sides of the same coin.

You just want to forget how much you despise him, how much you hate the feelings and sensations he coaxes out of you, if only for a short while. You can pretend like you still love him as a wife is supposed to love, honour, and obey her husband.

Instinct is the next sensation to possess you because it is due to instinct that you shiver, feeling an ice-cold chill that courses its freezing way throughout your body. It is because of instinct that your shoulders quake; it is thanks to instinct that you feel a fresh layer of cold sweat forming on your crown, dripping down your wide-eyed, alert expression in damp beads. You feel a leather-covered finger—it’s his index finger, you deduce this by the knowledge the lewd escapades of previous nights have blessed you with—slowly and carefully tracing a line down your shoulder blade. The same gloved finger trails down to the middle of your back, and then curving sharply up, pausing only to draw a small line from left to right and then dip down at a slanted angle before tracing a line back up.

_N._

Your fingers are clutching fistfuls of the thick comforters so tightly, your knuckles are white, and despite the heat being on, you shiver as though you are encased in a thick block of ice. The sweat that drips down your forehead, trails the skin of your cheeks makes the chill that possesses you all the more powerful.

_I know better._

Finally, your attention piques sharply for the second time in what feels like forever. You sense the telltale signs of your skin rising, turning clammy as the fear that’s rolling down your shoulders, your back in the form of perspiration. You focus on the way the right-to-left stroke slants down, pauses midway to swipe a path on the right, backtrack, continue down, and then mark a trail on the right for a second and last time.

_E._

The man who has been your husband for a year, Akira Kurusu, has just traced the word _“mine” _into the skin of your back with crimson clad fingers.

“A-Akira—”

That’s all you’re allowed to say as several things cut you off: the first is a slow, subtle rolling of clothed hips meeting the swell of your barely clothed ass; the second is the feeling of two hands reaching for—and resting—on your hips, covered only by thin straps of lace; the third is a pair of warm and familiar lips kissing a path from your sweating shoulders to the nape of your neck.

Your husband pauses and you swear you feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. You wait, and wait, and wait.

Nothing happens.

For a few and terrible moments that seem to stretch on into eternity, silence fills the dimly illuminated darkness of the bedroom.

Finally, _finally_, you will your mouth to open and force yourself to speak.

“W-Why aren’t you doing any—_nnh!_”

A sudden and unexpected suck to the back of your neck catches you off-guard, and you can’t hold back the moan that’s ripped from your throat no more than you can keep the shudder that possesses you at bay.

“Shh, Treasure, shh.”

You want to speak, but everything you feel—and worse, everything your body is feeling—is cranked up to levels of sensitivity you didn’t know you had. The softest kiss, the lightest touch makes you melt and makes you a mess of emotions; the lowest purr of approval, the sweetest of nothings whispered in your ear makes your heart race and your face flush with colour.

“A year into marriage and you’re still as adorable as ever.”

You suck in a breath as your fingers clutch at the covers you and Akira sit on. A second suck to your nape causes your brows to furrow, yanks a shivering moan from your lips as a chuckle vibrates on your nape, tickling the sensitive skin with the noise shaded with amusement and praise.

“There’s a good girl… My beautiful, obedient wife…”

A kiss that’s as light as a feather follows his words, and a suck makes you shake from head to toe.

“I love you, darling.”

Another kiss. Another suck.

“You’re so, _so _good. You are a Treasure far too lovely for this distorted world.”

A third kiss. A third suck.

You’re practically quivering in your husband’s hands by now, lips trembling like jelly as you spout nonsense.

Akira merely keeps on kissing, keeps on sucking the back of your neck.

“I believe…”

He trails off slowly, too suddenly for your liking, pausing for dramatic effect. He knows damn well that you’ll hang on to every word, each syllable that leaves his mouth.

“It is time we have a child, don’t you think so, Treasure?”

**Author's Note:**

> _Chuckles_
> 
> What a way to end it, am I right?
> 
> Truthfully, my brain was drawing a blank on how to conclude it.
> 
> I _may_ write a sequel to this, if there is enough interest in it.
> 
> Until next time, and remember: stay thirsty, dear customers.


End file.
